Darth Vader and the Chosen One
by The Solitary Sandpiper
Summary: Darth Vader was searching for his missing wife, but found a strange world instead. With a school called Hogwarts. Where they're making him take classes, play Quidditch, and keep calling him by the name "Harry Potter." And for some reason, nobody will believe that he's not the Chosen One, and that he really, really needs to get back home so he can finish what he started…
1. To Greet the Great Beyond

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own Star Wars._

Chapter 1: To Greet the Great Beyond

On the 5th anniversary of my wife's disappearance, I was smiling; smiling and zooming through the blackness of space, intent upon my goal. My heart beat fast. My hands gripped the TIE fighter controls.

After weeks, months, _years_ of searching, I was close. I could _feel_ it. It was in the currents of the air, which whispered as I flew. In the gradient of blackness that stretched on before me like deepest nights on Tatooine. In the vibrations of the lightsaber tucked against my hip.

"Padme," I breathed, my metallic voice echoing around the cockpit. "I _will_ find you. And when I have..." My mind snapped back, to the days before the Empire. When Padme and I had spent several weeks on Naboo, cavorting about in the pastures, playing in fields by day, and playing in pillows by night. Despite everything that had been going on at the time—the Clone Wars, the Senate power plays—things had been so _peaceful_. Padme and I had lived in a tiny little bubble that we had made for ourselves, a tiny little bubble of love, one that grew and grew with each moment spent together.

Was it too late to go back? Five years ago, I had been certain that I could. But as the years progressed, that certainty began to wane. I started to wonder if Padme wasn't coming back. If maybe she'd found a younger, more handsome man, who was significantly more nimble than I, and wasn't permanently confined to a black plastic suit. Who had more than 25% of his limbs, and didn't sleep with a horseshoe crab on his face. These doubts crept in, and as the days passed, my heart began to feel colder, and the pit in my stomach grew wider…

Until exactly 72 hours ago, when everything had changed. I had been visited in the middle of the night by a Force being, who was blue, and looked like the old pictures of Qui-Gon Jin, my Master's Master (or, as I used to affectionately call him, my Grandmaster). Qui-Gon had told me that I could find my wife. He had told me that I could reclaim the happiness of my old life. But only if I proceeded to a particular set of coordinates in space, at a particular time, and flew as _fast as I possibly could_ …

I had questioned Qui-Gon, and he'd refused to say much more.

"I need to think about this," I had said. "What if it's a trap?"

"Know this, Lord Vader," he had responded. "Happiness is a rare thing. Only one man in a thousand gets anything beyond a fleeting glimpse of it. It would be foolish to squander the opportunities that you are presented with." He'd bowed his head. "Think on it. And, if you find that you are ready, take the leap." Then he'd faded into the empty air, leaving me with nothing but a shocked expression and a list of the necessary coordinates. Oh, and one more thing: a feeling that I hadn't encountered in months, burning away in my chest…

A feeling of hope.

* * *

Qui-Gon had given me three days to think, but I needed three seconds. If there was even the smallest chance that I could find Padme, after I had spent so many years wasting away in the Imperial Palace, then I had to take it. I owed it to myself. I owed it to _her_. We had created that tiny little bubble of love, and it had floated away, but now I saw the chance to bring it back into my grasp, unharmed...Easiest choice in the world.

So I'd cleared my schedule, I'd packed my personal TIE fighter with enough food to last two weeks, and then I'd set off. The coordinates that Qui-Gon had given me weren't far from the Imperial Palace, but there were several places I had needed to see first. Coruscant, where Padme and I had lived together in secret. Naboo, where Padme and I had gotten married. And Tatooine, where Padme and I had first met. Normally, a TIE fighter was meant for short-range flight, but I had upgraded mine over the years, adding a hyperdrive, twenty-two additional engines, and several extra fuel tanks. This allowed me to hit all these places in just 64 hours, leaving 8 hours to get to the coordinates. I was almost there. I was feeling better than I ever had.

The control panel beeped at me. " _Sixty seconds to destination_ ," it said.

I squinted ahead. The viewscreen showed nothing unusual, just a patch of empty space. But like I said, I could feel that something was different about this _particular_ patch of space. And in a similar way, I knew—yes, I _knew_ —that my world was about to change. The same way that I had known, all those years ago, that my mother was being tortured by the Sand People. The same way that I had known that something bad was going to happen to Padme while in childbirth. Except this time, I felt that things were going to get so much better…

" _Fifty seconds to destination._ "

I clenched the controls, hard. I would need to activate my two dozen engines at exactly the right time for maximum thrust. Qui-Gon had said to fly as fast as I could, but had expressly forbidden me to use the hyperdrive. That would be cheating, he had said. Okay by me; I didn't need hyperspace to hit mind-blowing speeds. _Remember Tatooine? Remember the Clone Wars?_ I could pilot like nobody else.

" _Forty seconds to destination_."

Slowly, I moved my hand over to the throttle. I began to apply pressure, pushing gently, gently...

" _Thirty seconds to destination_."

My lightsaber was still vibrating, but it wasn't just the lightsaber, now. The whole ship started to shake. I could it feel it around me, pulsing, in the grip of something stronger than my own hands, though I still held the throttle. Outside, I could see the stars, once dots in the distance, now white streaks.

" _Twenty seconds to destination_."

My ship was encased in a glowing nimbus of light, but I didn't care. In fact, I didn't even notice; all that I could focus on was the vacuum before me, which was starting to...to open up, a vast sea of light and dark, ripping apart, like a gaping maw, like the throat of a giant fish—

" _Ten seconds to destination_."

There was a force on my body, tightening around my chest—

" _Five_.

I was being constricted by the air—

" _Four. Three. Two. One_ — _"_

Despite everything, despite the forces that were threatening to draw me into unconsciousness, I slammed my hand forward, giving everything I had, pushing the ship to full throttle. A roaring sound echoed around the cockpit, and it took me a second to realize that I was responsible, screaming through my mask—

Together, the ship and I spiralled into blackness.

* * *

In another galaxy, one many light years away, someone else was spiralling, but for very different reasons. Albus Dumbledore was old and grey, with a beard that passed his waistline. Robes of a somber black, to express his current mood. And eyes deep and dark, like a bottomless well, or the emptiness of space.

Years of reading had greatly dulled his vision, inducing a need for glasses, and he had impressive ones indeed; half moon frames, golden, perched upon his nose like a steamrolled canary. It was through these glasses that he now peered, as he looked out across the hall. Over the little faces, so eager, despite the near certain doom that was coming for them all…

Harry Potter was out there somewhere. He was standing with the new crop of students, ready to learn magic, not realizing, not knowing the future that was ahead of him. Of course, Harry probably wouldn't survive. He was only eleven, and Voldemort was rising. Albus's sources had suggested that in a year, maybe two, the Dark Lord would be at full strength once more. That is, if he didn't manage to steal the Philosopher's Stone first, which was at present sitting behind a trapdoor, three floors above them all.

Yes, the future was looking bleak. So bleak that _he really needed a drink_...

Albus waved his wand, and a glass of wine blurred off the table and into his hand. Of course, it was empty, but he could fix that; a quick Refilling Charm brought liquid to the brim, and he drank it all, in long gulps. Then he wiped his mouth, and tried to smile out at the students.

"Welcome, everyone," Albus murmured. "I am your Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. In a moment, Minerva will begin the Sorting Ceremony, but before that happens, I would like to say a few words. And they are: the world is bleak, and you will probably be murdered.

"Thank you."

Albus sat down, as a low mutter arose from the audience. He noticed Severus giving him a look, but ignored it. He helped himself to another bottle of wine, and found himself lost in thought, ruminating on Voldemort, and Harry Potter, and that blasted prophecy. If only Trelawney had never existed. If only he had given Voldemort that DADA teaching position...

He was so focused on his own problems that he hardly noticed that the Sorting Ceremony was in progress, and that Minerva was now calling, "Potter, Harry!"

Albus's head jerked up, along with most of the audience's. They had been sleeping in their seats, but now, at the name of their Savior, their eyes opened, peered around.

"Potter, Harry?"

Well, where was he? Where was Harry Potter, the Chosen One, who would either defeat Voldemort or find himself killed? Albus found himself scanning the students, his eyes passing over a Weasley and an Underwood and a Zabini, but not seeing a _Potter_.

 _Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

Still no Harry.

Now some of the teachers were looking worried. Minerva was staring around, and Hagrid had gotten out of his seat, was moving towards the group of remaining first years, bowling people out of his way. Could Harry Potter have gotten lost? Maybe fallen in the lake? That did happen on occasion, but the giant squid pushed them back out 75% of the time, and the other 25% of the time the kids were irritating and nobody cared. Except, people would care about Harry. _Albus_ would care about Harry, because the prophecy had said—

That is, the prophecy had said—

In that moment, a great flaming orb fell out of the sky, and landed smack dab in the middle of the Hufflepuff table.

The orb smoked for a bit, and the fires burned for even longer, but once everyone had calmed down and stopped screaming, Albus was able to move forward to inspect the wreckage. To see that it wasn't an orb at all, but a cockpit, partially reduced to ash. And in the center, dressed in all black, gripping the remains of a control panel—

"Ah-hah!" Dumbledore crowed. "I believe we've found our missing student!"

Then the insanity set in, and never really stopped.


	2. Keep Dreaming of the Desert

Chapter Two: Keep Dreaming of the Desert

Ron Weasley is worried he's going mad.

First, he meets a kid on the Hogwarts Express. Black hair, a lightning bolt scar, says his name is Harry Potter, pleased to meet you. They spend several hours discussing life among the Muggles and life among the wizards. Then, just before the Sorting Ceremony starts, "Harry" says that he _really_ needs to use the bathroom.

"Cover for me, will you, friend?" Those are the last words that Ron hears, and then Harry's dashing off. By then, McGonagall has already started the Sorting, and so Ron can only face forward, listen for his name, and hope that Harry can urinate at a high speed...otherwise, he'll miss his turn, and what will McGonagall do then? Expel him? Kill him? She's known for her strict reputation, and Ron really doesn't want to test it.

Of course, "Harry" doesn't get back in time.

"Potter, Harry!"

Ron is craning his neck around like crazy, looking for his friend's face. He can see Hermione Granger, over at the Gryffindor table, staring around as well; she met Harry on the train, she knows where he went.

 _Please, Harry, hurry! Because I'm not sure what to do_ …Ron scrunches his eyes up tight and prays. And at this point, other people are praying as well. Mostly that the Sorting Ceremony will just end, because everyone is super tired and super sad (Dumbledore's brief speech not helping matters), but also that Harry Potter will be found, because he _is_ the Boy-Who-Lived.

 _Come on, Harry...come on...appear, dammit! Appear!_

And then, of course, he does. Or _someone_ appears, flying straight down through the starry ceiling, slamming into the Hufflepuff table, squashing several students flat. Is it "Harry"? Dumbledore seems sure; Ron is less convinced. The guy certainly doesn't _look_ like the Harry he met. Though there are some similarities, Ron has to admit. First, both "Harry" and Harry have humanoid shapes. Second, the top of their heads are both black, though in "Harry's" case it's just hair, and in Harry's case it appears to be a fearsome helmet. Third, they're both similarly oblivious to the world around them. "Harry" didn't even notice when Ron fell asleep on the train, just kept on talking, or so Ron gathered upon waking up (six hours later!). And Harry...well, he's not exhibiting any sort of sensory activity at all, if his lack of movement is anything to go on. Just lying there...like maybe he's dead…

Could it be "Harry"? He still hasn't come back from the bathroom. Maybe the whole "I need to pee" thing was a lie, and he was really just changing into an armored costume. While climbing the walls of the Hogwarts castle. Yeah, that makes sense, Ron thinks. After all, he _is_ the Boy-Who-Lived.

Dumbledore keeps yelling about how their savior has arrived, while trying to force the Sorting Hat on top of Harry's helmeted head. But Harry puts up a good fight, or at least his helmet does; it's far too large for any sort of hat to cover, even one that's been stretched out by thousands of children. Eventually, Dumbledore finds another solution. He puts his hand inside the hat, uses his fingers to open the brim, and says, while moving his lips as little as possible, "GRYFFINDOR." He's not a very good ventriloquist, and Ron's pretty sure that everyone caught the trick. But it's all forgotten when the Gryffindor table gives a huge roar.

"We got Potter! We got Potter!"

Hermione is staring at Ron, supremely confused. Ron looks at her and shrugs. Weirder things have happened, right? Plus, Ron's new best friend just fell out of the sky. And crashed into a table. Maybe Ron should see how he is? Harry's still not moving, and Ron starts to worry as he makes his way to his armored side.

"Harry?"

"Mr. Weasley, if you could step back…"

"Professor Dumbledore, I just want to see my friend—is he okay?"

"Harry will be fine. He's had a trying evening, I'm sure, and just needs to rest…"

Ron is ignoring Dumbledore. He darts forward, and tries to take Harry's pulse. But he doesn't feel any heartbeat through the black armor. Everything his mother has taught him about healing indicates that this is not a good sign. What if...what if…?

"Professor Dumbledore," Ron gulps. "I think...I think that Harry…" But he doesn't finish his sentence. Because at that moment, the head snaps up. Swivels right and left. And an unearthly sound comes from within…

* * *

"Oh...uh…" That groan was me, as I slowly moved towards consciousness. My head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My body felt like it had been hit by a sledgehammer. "Oh…"

I opened my eyes, and was confronted by a strange sight. I lay in a vast hall, lined by several long tables. Hundreds of younglings were piled along the benches, in various states of somnolence. Several people were standing over me, most of whom seemed to be at death's door, judging by the astronomical number of wrinkles. Plus, a kid with flaming red hair and a tiny neck.

Where was I, exactly? Clearly a planet inhabited by humans, if appearances were anything to go by. The architecture was like nothing I'd seen in a long time; all straight lines, muddy colors, lacking the sleek curves that I'd come to know since my time among the Jedi. In a way, it reminded me of the simpler buildings of Tatooine, except for the light source. Because...were those candles? And were they _floating_?

I shook my head, trying to clear it, and several of the people nearest me jumped. However, one gave a wide smile, and patted me on the head. His long beard reminded me of my mother, and I found myself liking him immediately. "How are you feeling, Harry?"

Harry? Who was that? "Umm…"

"Mr. Potter, could you please explain what happened here?" a severe woman asked me pointedly.

What had happened? My mind was still a bit fuzzy. I had been flying...towards a set of coordinates...hadn't I? So that I could...so that I could find…

Find my _wife_.

In that moment, everything came flooding back. I remembered my mission, my quest. The deep-seated need to regain what I had lost. The hope. Except...I had followed Qui-Gon's directions. I had flown to the coordinates. And, assuming that my Grandmaster hadn't been lying, that meant that Padme was somewhere nearby.

I scanned the room, looking for her angelic features, for a hairstyle that defied gravity. My eyes passed over short kids, tall kids, obnoxious kids, and ugly kids—and damn, there were a _lot_ of those—but my wife was nowhere to be seen. I looked to the adults next, but they were either geriatric or so pale they were transparent, and I specifically remembered that Padme possessed neither of those traits. Unless...sometimes, when flying too close to certain planets, people could experience time slippage...

My eyes widening, I looked deep into the eyes of the old woman who had called me "Mr. Potter." "Padme…?" I said softly, not daring to believe. "Are you...Padme?" My voice came out an electronic rumble.

"Excuse me?"

A few people were looking at me funny. "I said...are you my wife? Padme Amidala?"

"Am I—that is to say—your _wife_ —?

"Yes, yes, my _wife_!" I started to grow agitated. I tried to look deep into her eyes, to search for something familiar. Why wouldn't she answer my question? "Padme, it's me! We met on Tatooine, we kissed on Geonosis, we got married on Naboo, we had sex on Coruscant, I tried to choke you to death on Mustafar, then you had a baby on Polis Massa—" Now everyone was looking at me funny, but I didn't stop, I needed her to _remember_ — "right after I lost an arm and two legs and also my extremely large— "

"Mr. Potter! You will mind your mouth, or you will find yourself in detention!"

I ignored her. "And that was when Emperor Palpatine told me you were dead, but I knew it couldn't be true, because he never even showed me the body! And I'm so happy to have found you, of course, assuming it actually _is_ you, though I'll admit I'm surprised to see how you've let yourself go a tad in the years since we last saw each other—you're looking so old and gray and a teensy bit flabby—"

* * *

"So you see, Mr. Potter," the bearded man, who said his name was Professor Dumbledore, leaned over me, "you are a wizard. A very powerful wizard! Though a rather forgetful one, it seems…"

I stared at him. After the old people managed to pick me up off the floor (Not-Padme had one hell of a right cross), Dumbledore had taken me to his office. There, he had explained that I was at a school called Hogwarts, which taught magic. Apparently, everyone believed that I was some sort of savior, a child that had balanced the scales by defeating a certain Lord Voldemort, and brought peace to the galaxy. Sound familiar? And I thought I was _done_ with all that business when I murdered the Jedi!

"I'm sorry," I said, speaking for the first time since Not-Padme had exploded at me, "but I think you've got the wrong person. I'm not Harry Potter. My name is Lord Vader, and I'm just looking for my dead wife. I must have crash-landed here by mistake...you know how unreliable those GPS can be…"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Nonsense, my boy; you are Harry Potter, I'm sure of it. Why, I knew it the moment I saw you!"

I raised my eyebrows, which of course he couldn't see. "But _how_?"

The man looked at me solemnly. "Harry, have you ever heard of a thing called 'genetics'?"

"Umm...yes?" The Jedi temple's science department had been renowned for their cloning and gene transplant techniques. In fact, I had participated in one experimental trial, where I received DNA from a fruit tree, in the hopes that I'd gain the ability to grow my own oranges. While it had been a disastrous failure with several painful side-effects, I still took pride in my ability to photosynthesize on command. "What, you're telling me that you did a DNA test? Compared it to this 'Harry Potter?'"

Dumbledore laughed good-naturedly. "Dear me, no! DNA tests? We wizards are so far from that, it's not even funny. _My_ methods are much more simple." He smiled gently, and placed a hand on my shoulder. "You have your mother's eyes, Harry."

 _What_? I touched my face, just to make sure that I was still wearing my helmet. "Um, Professor...are you sure…?"

Dumbledore wasn't done. "Harry, you have your mother's eyes. But the rest of you—your face, your complexion, your admirable physique—why, it's your father incarnate! The spitting image of James Potter, oh, yes…never thought I'd see..." He trailed off, while beaming at me.

Was this man _insane_? "So what you're saying is that my father, James Potter..."

"Yes?"

"He wore a black plastic suit?"

Dumbledore looked at me seriously. "I see no suit, Harry. Only the man within."

"But it's an opaque surface—"

He raised a hand, cutting me off. "You've had a rather trying day. I think it best if we resume this conversation several years from now, when your eleven year old mind has matured into something capable of handling the truth—specifically, the brain of a fifteen year old."

"What? No! I need to find my wife—get out of here, get back to my _home_ —"

Dumbledore smiled sadly. "I'm afraid that I cannot allow that, Harry. You are too important to be allowed such free reign, even for a mission as honorable as the one you have proposed."

"Excuse _me_?" For a moment, I sat, stunned. Then I felt the old anger in my gut. I wasn't going to be ordered around by some doddering old fool, one who thought he knew the walk of life better than I. If I decided to leave this place, then dammit, I would leave! I would salvage the remnants of my ship and walk right out the front doors, because I was Lord Vader, and nobody, not even the Hogwarts Headmaster, could tell me—

"Harry, I am generally a good natured man. However, do not try me on this issue." Dumbledore's gaze had grown sharp. "And if you attempt to escape on your own, be warned: the Hogwarts wards will burn you to a crisp."

Well, I had survived being a crisp once before. Maybe I could do it again—

"A _total_ crisp. One made out of all ash and no organic material. I created the wards myself."

 _Dammit_! I stared at the old man, and fought the urge to kill him with Force lightning. Then I took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to give away such an ability prematurely, not when I was so out of sorts and unfamiliar with my surroundings. But _soon_...

"Now, Harry, I believe you need to get to the Gryffindor dormitory. Your new bed awaits! Although, the path is confusing; would you like me to come as a guide?" It was a clear sign of dismissal, a refusal to listen. One that fanned the flames in my chest.

"I don't need your help, _Professor_." Slowly, I stood. Slowly, I rattled my breath. "This isn't over," I rumbled. "Not by a long shot…"

Fists clenching, cape swishing, I walked out the door.

* * *

Eight hours later, I was still wandering around, looking for the Gryffindor common room. But since the sun was coming up, I decided to just head for the Great Hall. I could get directions later...and plus, I was _really, really_ hungry.

The place was mostly empty, but a few early morning risers dotted the benches. I took a seat at the table labeled 'Gryffindor,' and grabbed a plate of doughnuts. The smell made my mouth water.

Now, you're probably thinking: how does a man with an unremovable plastic helmet eat? In fact, it's rather simple. You see, while most of my helmet is impenetrable, there's a place, right on the top, which is porous. And underneath the pores is a small funnel which leads directly to my mouth. So all that I have to do is take the desired food, make it reasonably wet, and then place it on top of my head. Eventually, it flows through the pores and into my mouth, and I get to enjoy the deliciousness. Practically like magic!

"What _are_ you doing?"

I looked up from my doughnuts to find a bushy haired girl sitting across from me; sitting and frowning. "Umm...I'm having breakfast?"

She stared at me. " _That's_ not how you have breakfast. In case you've forgotten, the food goes in the mouth, like this—" She demonstrated, and I found myself smiling. Ah, the certainty of youth...the innocence...

"You just ate one of my doughnuts," I told the girl.

"Technically they're everybody's doughnuts."

"Rather rude, don't you think?"

"Well, I think that you should be less possessive."

I made my voice a low rumble. "I find your lack of decorum disturbing. Now, I'd like to be left alone, because I have a lot of thinking to do—"

But I was interrupted when another kid, one with flaming red hair and a sweater labeled 'Ron,' sat down by my side.

"Hermione, go away," Ron said. "He doesn't want to talk to you." When the girl huffed and stormed off, he turned to me. "Hey Harry, why is there a doughnut on your head?"

"I'm eating."

Ron seemed to take that in stride, and stuffed a large waffle in his mouth. In between chews, he told me, "Nightmare, that Hermione. Such a know-it-all. Bet _she'll_ never have any friends."

I rolled my eyes. "She's eleven years old, Ron," I told him. "She'll grow out of it. And then you might become best friends. Maybe even lovers."

He gagged. "That's about as likely as the Cannons winning the Quidditch cup!"

While I had no idea what 'Quidditch' was, I got the gist. "Let me tell you something, kid." I put my hand on his shoulder. "When I was eleven, I wanted to be a Jedi. I spent hours dreaming about it. Every night, I'd look up at the stars, and imagine that a Jedi Knight was flying for my planet, coming to take me to the Temple." I sighed. "Then, when I was twenty-five, I killed them all in cold blood." I stood up. "So you see, Ron...things change. People change." I shrugged. "Try and keep an open mind, why don't you?"

Then, ignoring his gaping mouth, I walked away, but not before snatching one more doughnut for the road.

* * *

"Mr. Potter! _Where do you think you are going_?"

I wheeled around, as Not-Padme, also known as Professor McGonagall, ran after me. I had been trying to reach the Hogwarts gates, in order to inspect Dumbledore's handiwork—but apparently that was not in the cards. I drew myself up haughtily. "I'm taking a walk, Professor. My legs get rather anxious, being confined to this suit all day, you know."

McGonagall was not impressed. "Your legs," she said, "can wait until after classes are over." Then she thrust a piece of paper into my arms.

"What's this?" I scanned my eyes down the page. It looked like a schedule of some sort. A _schedule_ …I let out a groan, and gave it back to her. "No, thank you. I've had enough classes to last a lifetime."

McGonagall pushed it right back into my arms. "You are a student here, Mr. Potter, and as such you _will attend class_."

I put my hands on my hips. "I will not."

"You will, too."

"I will _not_."

"You will _too_. And if you refuse, then I will _make_ you." Suddenly, I realized that Professor McGonagall's face had moved extremely close to my own. I looked deep into her eyes, and saw a hint of something...playful?

"Professor McGonagall," I said gravely. "Are you _flirting_ with me?"

She spluttered in response..

"I thought so," I said. "Unfortunately, I'm already taken."

More splutters.

"But I'm okay with a bit of recreational activity, if you are. Padme never begrudged me that. After all, what are friends—Professor, wait!"

I tried to catch her, but those old legs were _fast_.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think in the reviews!_


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